


Rainfall

by Daedric_Prince_of_Pasta



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempt at Humor, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, if you squint you can see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-05 07:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daedric_Prince_of_Pasta/pseuds/Daedric_Prince_of_Pasta
Summary: It’s about falling rain, puppets and breaking 'n' entering.





	1. A Deal in the Downpour

Rainfall sounded redundant to Fahlkun. 

_Rain always pours downwards, so why is it called ‘rainfall’? Idiots_, he frowned as he stared at the open flame that danced rhythmically despite the dreary weather. The Half-Aeterna lost any trace of thought the second his companion exhaled a puff of peaceweed. It was almost time.

The two adventurers had successfully trudged through the Western Cliffs, south west of Ark. Amongst foliage, there was much to be seen, such as a the glowing wisps, the friendly spiders and Fahlkun’s personal favourite point of interest, _the puppets_.

“Puppets?” He repeated, this time out loud. The volume of his voice alarmed a small flock of birds nearby.

Jespar had explained that this ‘artist’ — the Aged Man — placed these wooden, life-sized puppets here and all around his estate at random. They were humanoid and expressionless, unmoving as the rain dripped softly upon them.

“For what purpose these serve is anyone’s guess,” Jespar shrugged nonchalantly, but his jaw remained taut. The frequency of those puppets increased the longer they walked. Sure, it was subtle but unsettling nonetheless.

The Aged Man’s Abode was nestled in huge towering cliffs as Jespar and Fahlkun approached. It stood like a lighthouse in a storm, and it made Fahlkun feel like a lunar moth; the light encapsulated in grey stone and mountains beckoned them forth.

That was, well, until Jespar’s palm halted his chest to a stop, an unspoken reminder to him about their meeting. So for several hours they waited under a natural shelter both cozy and quaint.

But by Malphas’ nose hairs, did they wait. Insufferable to Fahlkun, but Jespar had his pipe.

Then Jespar mentioned the time — that being almost the witching hour, Fahlkun wordlessly followed him in suit until they stood outside of the great gate that separated them from the estate itself. They could barely make out a cobblestone path framed by more of those fleshless puppets. _Wonderful_.

“Delightful little place,” Jespar tried optimistically, but his smile faltered with every pelt of rain. “Those busts look interesting.”

Fahlkun hummed in thought, as he took the time to inspect the busts previously mentioned. He ran one hand over its solid curve, his eyebrow twitched in slight surprise and pressed down on some kind of button mechanism.

A bell like sound ricocheted all around them, so loud that it drowned out the rain for a moment, it’s echo hung around like a bad secret revealed, as though each pang signified every second until their doom.

Without missing a beat, a silhouette appeared on the right side, as if on cue. Fahlkun shielded his eyes in some vain attempt to recognise the figure but all he could confirm was that it was, in fact, a man. Eyes, brows, lips, he had it all. Aged too, although no pun intended.

Well-dressed and unresponsive to the rain, the odd fellow regarded them cautiously. His dark bushy brows and grey eyes scanned the two adventurers coldly, but he didn’t dismiss them.

“Yes? What do you want?”

_Straight to the point._ Fahlkun stepped forward, “Walked blessed, mysir. Are you—”

“I’m the servant, so no, I’m not. And if you’re looking for charity you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“We’re not beggars, we’re merchants.” Fahlkun gestured to Jespar and himself. “And we were told that your master was some kind of collector. We think we have something that might interest him.”

Fahlkun couldn’t have thought those bushy brows could lower any further, but he was so, so wrong. “Do you now? So what could two travelling merchants, dressed in rags, have that might be of interest to my master?”

The ‘merchant’ then reached into his satchel and presented the trinket in question. He stepped back slowly as he watched the servant eye the necklace, its sheen glistened as bright as the light emitted from the mansion behind the holder.

“Hmmm… This is the silver brooch of seraph. Where did you get this?”

“From a Keeper.” _Technically true_, he thought, as Arantheal flickered in his mind.

The servant’s expression rotated back to a standard frown coupled with narrowed eyes. “Uh-huh.”

With a sigh that formed steam, the servant pocketed the jewellery quickly, as if he just decided the water soaking his fine clothing was now bothersome.

“Well then, this changes the situation. You may enter… please, forgive my harshness. I… misjudged you.”

The metal gates swung open slowly as soon as the servant pulled the chain beside him. Fahlkun let out a breath he didn’t know he had and the servant led the way, and as he did, he answered an unspoken question to the cool night air.

“Unfortunately, Master Gajus is currently playing music and will be at least until dawn. But you can make yourself comfortable in the guest room, he will see to you in the morning.”

Jespar’s face lit up. “Okay, sounds good. Today we wouldn’t have made it back to Ark…” His arm outstretched, he let the water run through his fingers and rubbed them together, not at all turned off by the difference in temperature. “Just try to get a Myrad Warden to fly in this weather.”

No one was pleased to be greeted by the puppets which marked either side of the steps to the main entrance. Not even that servant fellow; he simply waded through the rain like a ghost. Like nothing.

“So… a nice house you’ve got here.” Jespar poked absentmindedly at one of the puppet’s carved nose. It didn’t budge. “So it’s just you and your master who live here, right? People talk about him a lot.”

Fahlkun’s looked up at the two stone gargoyles perched above the door. You seem to talk about him too, he remembered. The mercenary always mumbled the same line from that Aged Man song, and even if sung like a drunkard, it was still memorable. Anything that man did was memorable.

Tired and blunt, the servant’s strained voice cut through his thoughts like a hot knife through butter. “Please, let’s just save the small talk. You’re here for business.”

Jespar pursed his lips and looked anywhere but in the direction of the living; Fahlkun bit his lip down in order to stop an eruption of giggles. Couldn't outdo Jespar in the unprofessional department.

But the old man was right, of course. They were here for business.

It was time.


	2. Drip Drop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've heard of Fahlkun's perspective, now get ready for Jespar's

It is an unspoken rule that no elderly man should ever own a home in the middle of nowhere unless they’re mad, a broken shell of a person, a serial killer or a taxidermist.

This, ‘Master Gajus’, leant far too closely between serial killer and taxidermist for Jespar’s liking.

The taxidermy was a strong contender — it seemed this ‘artist’ had procured several of these puppets upstairs too, as seen from below.

As for the serial killer aspect? This mansion was too dimly lit. Light enough to see, but dark enough that gave the impression of intimidation rather than that of coziness. You couldn’t see a blade coming at you until it was too late. Not an ideal location for a soirée.

Still, the place was rather roomy, spacious. A statue of woman stood in between a pair of parallel stairs leading to the second floor. _Impressive_.

Jespar and Fahlkun sloshed their way behind the servant, who weirdly enough, left no pools of his own. Jespar appreciated now more than ever that his armour provided a hood. Fahlkun wasn’t so fortunate. He shook his vermillion locks of hair and showered the floor in droplets.

_‘No hood today?’ He had commented._

_‘The key to trust is familiarity. This ‘Aged Man’ needs to see that I have nothing to hide.’_

_‘Your resolve is sound, but we’re pretending to be merchants, remember?’_

_‘Don’t think I haven’t given it much thought.’ He grinned as he shoved the brooch into his satchel and swung it over his shoulder. ‘It’s essential that when one must lie, it must be smothered in layers of truth. That way, the falsehood goes undetected.’_

_The elven man paused and gazed at Jespar’s mouth a little too long to be unnoticeable. ‘You… have several crumbs in the corner of your mouth.’_

_‘I— no I don’t. At least I shouldn’t. I haven’t eaten anything recently.’_

_‘On the contrary, I believe we did share several sweet cakes this morning. Remember? You were sitting on the bench near the Scuola and then—’_

_Jespar held his hands up in defeat. He swotted away at his own face and felt…. Nothing. No crumb textures, just… skin. Just Jespar._

_It was when he turned around did he see the familiar glint in those gold eyes, that triumphant smirk and those folded arms did he finally, finally understand what he meant._

_The mercenary chuckled. He was good, he admitted to himself. ‘Damn. Slicker than honey, you got me.’_

_The grin deepened. ‘Thought you could separate the truth from fiction.’_

_‘And I thought you were going to meet me at the myrad tower.’ And with that, the mercenary winked and took his leave._

Well, he guessed the arcanist was right about the lie being in between truths, now that they were finally indoors. The servant gestured to the stairs before them.

“Good… Now follow me upstairs; I’ll show you to your quarters.”

The guests said nothing as the servant rose up the stairs. Jespar kept his eye out for exits, doors… anything that would help them find the artefact in question and to make a quick getaway.

“As I said before, Master Gajus will play through the night – my apologies if his music keeps you awake. But if you want a piece of advice—“ the elderly man stopped on his heel once he reached the second floor’s landing. “— listen. You won’t hear anything comparable in all of Vyn.”

Jespar smiled with no teeth. “Well, then we’ll do just that. So I take it that your master is an artist, right? I saw the puppets they’re…”

The servant had led them closer to one of the doors, no doubt the guest room, and Jespar couldn’t help but gawk at the puppet close to them. It was twisted. It meant something. It was…

“… interesting.”

“Interesting… yes, they are.”

The mercenary noticed Fahlkun at his side, equally captivated by the display. His golden eyes shone in the dim lighting, almost glowing.

“Master Gajus always said that art is unique, because it allows us to see what our minds don’t want us to see.”

The white-haired man blinked rapidly and turned on his heel. Fahlkun didn’t move.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, we all have demons inside of us, don’t you agree, Mysir Dal’Varek? Memories, truths about ourselves we’ve locked away somewhere in our unconsciousness because we don’t want to confront them.” The servant turned his back and opened the the heavy guest room door. “True art surpasses all these barriers, because it reminds us of who we truly are.”

The Arazealean couldn’t help but feel but feel like this fellow was talking about something at his own expense, but he was more concerned on the fact that this man, this servant, knew his name that he never gave.

“Hm. Interesting thought.”

This guest bedroom looked normal enough, by noble standards. If by normal you mean a pair of double beds — no wall separating them — freshly cooked food, an already lit fireplace and…

Jespar snuck a glance behind himself. Puppets. More puppets, located either side of the entrance.

“Alright, and here we are. Make yourselves at home. I will inform you once the Master is ready to see you.” A wrinkled hand wavered towards a table in front of the hearth fire. “Ah, by the way — call it an intuition or premonition, but I somehow had the feeling that we would have company tonight and tool the liberty of cooking a small meal.”

Not one hair on Jespar’s lithe physique liked how the elder addressed Fahlkun and vice versa; the Prophet’s hand held the other’s wrist, eyes averted simultaneously. Dal’Varek’s jaw clenched.

“I’m afraid the meat is a little charred, but it should taste good.” His steps were slow, measured, as were his choice of words. “Now please excuse me, I have to rest. It is late and the day has been exhausting.”

A tight smile was all he could muster at that point. “Of course. Sleep well and thank you for your hospitality.”

“You’re welcome.” And he was gone.

Jespar witnessed the worst; Fahlkun’s eyes ablaze and wrists wrung. He watched his friend quite often during their time together, an old habit, and he wagered that he could almost read 10% of the emotions that would surface — for the most part he saw the playful expression, the curious one, the tough-serious one; sometimes the angered one in combat, thankfully, not aimed towards him.

However, it was the anxious face that unnerved Dal’Varek the most. Face being and overstatement — it was mostly seen in those golden orbs, lips pressed into a thin line, and self-cuffed wrists. It was clear Fahlkun was held himself back, a restrained struggle and almost at his limit. He pondered little about what it would be like if that kind of dam would break…  
What would he see? Would his friend let him?

Thankfully, Jespar was completely sober, and decided to ignore the inner emotional interrogation and instead did would he did best: talk.

“And there he goes… Call me paranoid, but that all went a little too smoothly for my liking.”

That snapped Fahlkun out of his own head. “You’re right… there was something off about that guy.”

“Yeah, for example, the fact that he was already standing at the gate when you rang… that he lives here with a man older than the Black Guardian himself, at least according to the legends. But well, to each his own.”

Jespar let his hand slide across the top of the chairs facing the open hearth and found satisfaction within its warmth. The familiarity was not lost on him, but he didn’t allow his mind to wander any further than that. _Live every day like it’s your last, but not in your past_, he recited as he thought of the Wise Hermit doctrine. He halted again at the sight of the double bed duo near the end of the room.

“Two double beds…” he shook his head.

“Like you said, he’s eccentric. An artist.” He heard the grin from where he stood.

“Not always synonymous.” He turned on his wet heel and shrugged. “But it helps.”

His stomach flip-flopped in time with Fahlkun’s snicker. _I like making him laugh_.

The hearty sound ended far too soon. “So, what do we do now? Wait?”

The other man nodded. “One or two hours at least, until the servant is asleep.”  
He set down his pack as Fahlkun approached. “I’ve got a skin of wine with me, so if you want, we could enjoy it in the meantime…”

The mercenary paused. Some reason compelled him to look back at Fahlkun’s face.

Anxious once again, he stared down the charred meat with faint disdain.

Another thing about his companion; the Half-Aeterna would almost cringe at the sight of uncooked or overcooked meat, for what reason, he thanked the Wise Hermit for his ignorance. Jespar had assumed his palate bordered on vegetarian, but he’d seen him wolf down an entire venison soup in under five minutes back at Riverville. He was mostly skin and bone months ago.

That look though. Haunted. Disturbed. A secret skittered to the surface that threatened to break those golden irises.

No, that won’t do. He dusted his knees with clean palms and stood up.

“I wouldn’t touch this food, if I were you. Might ruin the wine,” He quipped and tossed the meat into the flames before he set the platter down again. “You could tell me more about this trial while we’re waiting. Or about anything. Just distract me from those damn ugly puppets over there.”

Making Fahlkun mouth twitch upwards was as close a victory as any, in Jespar’s books at least.

“As you wish. Perhaps we should suggest some more… appropriate furniture to this 'Gajus’.”

Jespar couldn’t stifle his chuckle. Didn’t want to. “I suppose he isn’t one for interior design. A pity.”

Muffled rain through stone and glass filled the silence as the duo turned to Master Gajus’ creations. Jespar uncorked the wine. Fahlkun took off his muddy boots and collected his friends’. Chairs unused; the floor sufficed. The carpet felt new, barely worn out and rather warm. Inviting. Cozy.

His friend had shared more of his experience about the trial; his face engulfed in golden light. Jespar recalled that he had told him a vague overview of the trial itself — the trek into the Whisperwoods, bore witness to the Red Madness up close and personal and being a reluctant participant in a drinking ritual with the mysterious Sakaresh, a drug addict and a uptight novice with a birthright complex.

After that, the more interesting part of the story began — the dreams.

Jespar held out the bottle, arm extended, and watched his comrade take a long, uninterrupted swig.

“That bad, huh.”

“No. You were in it.”

A silver brow raised. “Really? Curiouser and curiouser.”

“Oh I’m serious. Dead serious. You were there, in the Curarium.” An Amber skin handed the bottle to one with much fairer. “It was almost real. Too real.”

“But more importantly,” the authentic Jespar pointed out. “How could you tell it wasn’t? If there were no inaccuracies to my inflections, my complexion and my mannerisms...” The bottle was placed beside him. “Then, what distinguishes the real me from a dream?”

Fahlkun tapped his chin that rubbed against ginger stubble. “It was simple really.”

Jespar cocked his to the side.

Gold shards glittered in those eyes of his. “He was sober.”

Tension unraveled, which prompted him to let go of any doubts with a hearty couple of laughs and playful punch to Fahlkun’s arm to boot. The so called Prophet rolled to his side and snorted.

When was the last time he had laughed this hard? Jespar couldn’t conjure anything. He was no arcanist. Just a good-looking mercenary who happened to be working with yet another good-looking adventurer. Just as well.

Fahlkun’s laughter trickled away once again, like the rain pattern outside. “You said I was pathetic.”

Cold sweat ran down his spine. The change of pace was not welcome. “Pretty sure I didn’t. I’d know. I am me, you know.”

His friend gave him a look. “The dream, Jespar.”

“Oh.” _Oh_.

“’_Pathetic, simply pathetic_.’” Crimson hair fell like a curtain over closest to Jespar. His gaze gravitated toward the flames once again. Somber. Not hurt. “That’s how I truly knew it wasn’t you. It couldn’t be you.”

And Jespar didn’t know what to make of that. Or maybe he did, once. But not now.

So he hummed as he pretended to think. The old habit served him well when the air grew thick and serious, like trying to breathe in smoke. He drew his knees to his chest and rested his arm braces against them. Fahlkun perched himself upon a chair and sipped a cold resistance potion, homemade for the trip.

Luckily for the now tight-lipped Jespar, Fahlkun decided to talk for a while. Good. He could use his voice to scream later if and when those wooden puppets would come to life.

“Hm… interesting thought, the thing about the last moment that can last forever.” Jespar put his pipe in mouth. Not to smoke, but to ponder, like ponderers do. “Did you know that Qyranian mentalists are apparently able to sort of ‘become aware’ in their dreams? And apparently in a dream, one can exist free of time…”

The ponderer Jespar waved his above him; he was outstretched on his back. Fahlkun had rejoined on the floor, when he decided that being a traitorous chair-sitter was just too much to bear alone. Also, it was fun to stare at the ceiling into nothingness with a friend. It made things just that more interesting.

“There’s a story about an arcanist who spent a thousand years in a dream while he only slept eight hours in his waking life.”

“Not sure if I want to be stuck in a dream world forever,” Fahlkun mused.

“Don’t want to ‘live the dream’ as they say?” Before the other could respond, Jespar winked and jumped to his feet. “But well, that’s a topic on its own. I think it’s late enough for our little excursion now… let’s find that relic.” He bowed. “Lead the way, O Prophet.”

Fahlkun grimaced, but heeded the suggestion.

Following Fahlkun the wanderer was a double-edged sword; on the one hand, he’d lead them into trouble. On the other, he’d lead them into even more trouble.

For the life of himself, Dal’Varek couldn’t decide which one was the positive or the negative, but when did that ever factor in?

They stepped out of their room and the short hairs on the back of Jespar’s very good-looking neck stuck the second they heard it. Right across the threshold of the second floor.

_Music_. A piano, to be precise.

“So here it is… Master Gajus music that transcends all barriers.” Jespar relaxed somewhat; Fahlkun didn’t. “Hm. As jolly as this place. However, it’s loud enough to cover our softer footsteps so I’m game.”

The other side of the second floor was a no-go-zone then. But the door adjacent to there’s was locked up tight. The gentleman of the two graciously offered his locksmith services as it was the polite thing to do. What a man, what wit.

That and Fahlkun was too distracted by Master Gajus’ barrier-surpassing melancholic melody to focus on not breaking a lockpick or dropping said lockpick.

With a click and sigh of relief, Jespar the great pride the door open and as it swung slowly, it revealed—

“Puppets…” he gasped.

“… in cages…” finished the Prophet.

They swept the room through sight alone and they didn’t even stop to take a breather. Tools, bits of timber and cages that hung from the ceiling. A sight to be sure, but not a pleasant one.

And yes, the serial killer vibe was off the charts.

“So many puppets…” Fahlkun breathed over the dramatic piano that played in the background.

“In cages.” Jespar remained where he was. Someone needed to be on the look-out.

They exchanged a glance and decided it was best they pretended to act with some level of normalcy.

But Jespar couldn’t hold it for long. “Do you think he… you know… damn, think of the splinters—“

“—I’d rather not, Jespar.”

They continued to descend to the ground floor, and Fahlkun made the decision to towards the corridor that emitted more light, and far from the music. Jespar the follower didn’t mind at all.

It was rather easy to be distracted when the person in view wasn’t unpleasant to stare at. Not bad all.

The ‘light room’ looked like a miniature library of some sort. Each adventurer took to one of the room.

On Jespar’s side of the reading room, there were bookshelves for days, so much that he figured the Order would have a field day. _Hm_.

“Book, books, books… there must be hundreds…” he ran his hands over the book cases. He was pleasantly surprised none of the books contained anything to do with caged puppets. Speaking of puppets he tried unsuccessfully to avoid the pair on his side; another scene of a man and child sitting at a table. ‘_White light will shine within your eyes_’, the descriptive plaque read. Jespar didn’t even attempt to pretend to understand what that meant.

Several blinks counted themselves upon his delicate eyes. Something was wrong — _several things are wrong here Jespar,_ his mind noted. But there was something extra, something that wasn’t there before.

Footsteps. Or, lack thereof. Fahlkun had ceased his search on the window-side of the space. Jespar sauntered over, and seemed to notice subtle curiosity in his companion’s expression as they studied a pair of puppets, placed in a scene; one female-shaped towered over a cowered figure of a man, their sword almost drawn.

The intrigued mercenary tilted his head as though that would help him understand the plaque inscription: _'No Compromise’_. It did not.

“They’re so grim,” Fahlkun murmured in a distant voice. It was almost drowned out by the rain and music. “The one’s in the guest room were titled ‘_Harvest_’ and ‘_Reaching for Salvation_’.”

“Not so bad,” Jespar hesitated. “I’ve heard worse from weekly sermons.”

“You say that, but you didn’t see the ones outside our room.”

Gloom and doom, he solemnly left the room. Jespar could only follow.

“Don’t leave me in suspense. I’ve had enough to last the year, especially from that servant fellow.”

On instinct, he glared over his shoulder. No old men in sight.

Fahlkun sighed. “The four of them upstairs?”

Jespar nodded.

“All of them, all four. The same name. The same damn name, the same damn thing.” Fahlkun cast a look over his shoulder. “’_They shall burn_.’”

His words barely echoed in the main lobby. Jespar, unsure of what to say, turned to the statue of the woman. Cloaked and tear-stained, he spied a mask in the centre font, filled with moss. Likewise, Jespar tried to fill his mind with positives.

_You’re here for business._

Jespar sped ahead, towards the unexplored corridor. It looked promising and so, he beckoned his partner forth.

“Well, well. Hmm. That looks like some kind of study. Maybe we could find something there.”

Fahlkun, ever the curious one looked at the sleeping puppet scene. Man and child, lifeless but not just because they were hollow wooden puppets.

“’_Dreams_’. Not very optimistic but uh, guess this one is my favourite. Though I suppose that isn’t saying much.”

“Tell that to Master Gajus. I for one cannot understand why you instantly gravitate towards them. They’re just…” the man let out a breath. “We have to find this artefact… Maybe he’s hiding it in some kind of chest, or a secret chamber. Let’s look around and away from the damn puppets.”

Bookshelves were also the star of this room too. He supposed since this Master Gajus lived alone, save that servant and a small army of mannequins, one would need to fill in the time somehow. Reading seemed like a solid guess. Did this man sleep at all? Or eat? He hadn’t spied any kitchen nearby where that infernal excuse for a meal was made. Hell, there wasn’t even a lavatory.

Come to think of it — he wondered as he scanned the odd bookshelf or two; Fahlkun examined the desk in the centre behind yet another hearth fire — there was no vegetable garden. He vaguely recalled a well but other than that…?

Everything felt off. Too off. Like they were being watched. Tested, perhaps? Jespar rubbed his temple.

_Keep it simple. Think of where and how you would hide an artefact that could relate to the dead and the damned._

Jespar placed another book back into the shelf and tried to grab the next one but— it was stuck. Stuck. He tried again. Stuck. Again to the left. Still stuck.

Pursed lips and a fire brewed in his belly. _Bingo_, he wished the Wise Hermit would say.

His brain reminded himself that he was an expert at cracking locks and looking good. He could do this, and he had a lead.

“Hmm, maybe we should have a look at these bookshelves. They look kind of weird.”

“As opposed to…?” The sarcasm died where the redhead stood. He placed down a letter he was reading back on the desk, and Jespar explained his discovery on the book phenomenon.

“These books must be part of some kind of mechanism. Have you tried, I don’t know, pulling on them or something like that?”

Fahlkun’s somber and serious expression morphed into surprise, as he mentioned he had noticed some oddly titled books that sounded like a phrase. He fluttered over to the desk once again and pointed one long finger at the letter.

“Here it is again. ‘Pride was my fall’. Each word has a corresponding book—“

“— and if we chime them in order, whatever will happen will sing.” Jespar held his palm outward as his accomplice complied. “Remarkable stuff, my friend. I’m starting to worry about my job security.”

“Likewise,” Fahlkun winked. _Charming_. “I’m going to press them, and you keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

Jespar saluted half-heartedly and moved towards the door. His companion collected himself and exhaled sharply.

_One, two, three_.

The door sentry stood back in amazement as his partner ran flew across the room, knocking over almost everything in a frenzy. He had to admit, it was surprising anyone hadn’t come down to investigate; he covered his mouth to stop himself from laughing as Fahlkun slide across the desk to get to the other side.

_Click, click, click, click—_

It worked!

“What’s this?”

Fahlkun pointed to a chain near the fireplace. Jespar joined him and encouraged him to be the one to pull it. A reassuring look was shared between them. I’ve got your back.

Gingerly, Fahlkun’s arm reached for the chain and tugged hard. Mechanisms chipping noises flooded their ears. It was fast. Too fast.

“That sounds good. I—“

Jespar paused as he rolled on his heel. The ground beneath his aloof companion, looked like—

“Hey—“ he began, but like an amateur musician, his tempo was off, way off, and he could do nothing but reach out in vain as his friend fell to the trap — a hidden shaft. The failure skittered to his knees and edged himself forward but no, the fall was too far down — he could barely make out Fahlkun moving away on a mobile platform, out of reach, out of sight.

Panic rose. Jespar couldn’t breathe.

_Get up, get up, get up,_ his conscious screamed and as if, by some divine prank, the door they originally came through swung closed with a thundering thud.

After making an enemy with every inch of the damn door, Jespar sunk down to his knees in defeat and ran a hand through his short hair.

He let his friend down.

He _literally_ let his friend down.

He was lost in a freaky mansion, with freaky puppets, and his not-so-freaky companion was isolated.

He was trapped. Confound it all, they were neck deep in trouble and all he could do was nothing.

_Pathetic. Simply pathetic._


	3. Rainvelations

_Now forgive me._

* * *

Light. Darkness. Frigid. Moist.

Fahlkun winced as the rain awoke him. It was as if he was assaulted by a cacophony of frozen her wet drumsticks. If those said drumsticks were merciful about it.

He opened his eyes and soon discovered that was a mistake. _Still raining… how much time has passed? _The question crossed over his mind as he stood, soggy and groggy, his thoughts connected ever so slowly, one neurone after the other.

The fragments of Fahlkun’s mind moved at a snail’s pace; he fell in time with his companion’s expression… a room with a floating body… below, the Word of the Dead… Pyreans… the servant and the Aged Man being one and the same… the paper…

The damped Prophet patted himself down. Something in his pocket. The glyphs! He sighed in relief, a large puff of steam. They were still in good condition so long as they remained in his pocket. Good.

Mission completed.

_And yet_... He whirled around, a revolution.

A revelation. “What the…” his crimson hair waved in all directions. Something was wrong. Something was missing. “Where’s Jespar?”

Like a cow in a rice-field, Fahlkun stomped around looking for the lost mercenary, his muddied boots heaved like hooves. The rain masked anything more than a few feet in front, but he could vaguely make out the gate in which they had entered, provided after he had accidentally walked into and tripped into a boulder, a shrine, one of the walls and his will to live.

The elementalist, unable to conjure up any possibility of warmth, as he shivered and made his way to the arch of the gate. He mentally recalled the shelter he and Jespar had waited for hours on end prior. It seemed like a safe bet as any.

His gait grew more guarded as he saw a figure pace back and forth near the mouth of the metal gates. The cautious and prepared arcanist readied his already twitchy fingers, sensing the fabrics of realities; he steadied his breathing, long and measured.

The figure hadn’t noticed his presence yet, or at least he thought as much. Fahlkun crouched behind a nearby tree, as quietly as possible, casting silence and adjusted his movements to that of a cat stalking a mouse. If a mouse walked on two legs, stiffened at the sloshing of boots and suddenly stalked towards the tree.

All he heard was the sound of sliding metal; light-footed but not to a beat to purposefully throw him off, and it made his body tense. The target had drawn his weapon. Soon he’ll return the favour.

Lighting quick, Fahlkun aimed his index and middle finger like a nocked arrow on a bow and curved his body around the tree, his boot splashed in the rain, his hand spawned static shocks that _almost took out Jespar’s very beautiful and angelic nose._

“Jes—I—uh—sorry,” The strangled cat called Fahlkun stammered and he promptly withdrew his hand; a cross between shock and relief and something sheepish. Either way, he wasn’t sure what to feel, as he let out a tense releasing breath and soft blush hidden by damped hair.

Jespar’s face hadn’t changed at all, as it mirrored Fahlkun’s own; genuine confusion. “You…but… what the heck was that? Where’s the manor?”

The prophet blinked, as though that would provide some clarity to the tangled words his friend had said. A second revelation hit him like an overweight leoran to the chest — the manor was gone.

_It was kind of hard to miss_, a pessimistic voice echoed in his brain that made him feel more stupid than ever before. He had stumbled his way through where the structure had previous stood. He was right there — Jespar had confirmed it with his own question.

Now those words, the words he remembered made sense to Fahlkun. _Now forgive me… For teleporting the fuck out of here._

“That’s hard to explain.”

“Try me… Any explanation is better than none.”

The two confused and slightly wiped-out men crouched under the tree; Jespar wiped his brow and Fahlkun collected his thought together in some tangible capacity. Oddly enough, the rain softened and helped him gather enough relevant information for the tale he was about to tell.

He explained what he could, from the moments after falling down the shaft, to finding the artefact— the Word of the Dead— to the memories of the Pyrean Priest and then, the mysterious and cryptic Aged Man. Jespar’s sky blue eyes narrowed at the fact the man servant was in fact, Master Gajus, the Aged Man.

“Uh-huh.” His weary companion fanned out his hands, both wet and dirty. “That sounds… strange, to say the least. After you went down that shaft, someone locked the door to the study… and I couldn’t get it to open, no matter what I tried.”

“Not a Starling’s lock, eh?” He jested.

That eased the tension in Jespar’s features and made a small smile at the memory. He shook his head.

“Sadly no. And even if it was, I’d need a good couple of sticks and I for one am not up to pinching a few from those artworks.”

He explained how after his lockout, he couldn’t recall anything else, other than waking up outside, manor-less and face-down in the mud. Fahlkun couldn’t help but snicker as Jespar wipes his face self consciously but grinned all the same. Was it just him, or was the rainfall slowing down?

Jespar stretched, distracted. “But anyway, these glyphs you drew on the paper look good to me, so at least officially, this mission was a success.”

Fahlkun was about to suggest they head out until Jespar motioned with one finger to his lips.

“I only wish I— hang on… you see that?” The man trotted over to a small pond, hugged by large pieces of earth.

Fahlkun was just about done with all the vague mumbo-jumbo — he’d heard an earful from Master Gajus not long ago. The Half-Aetera reluctantly followed and folded his arms.

“Hm.. what’s that… a casket?” Jespar inspected, more with his concerned eyes than with his crafty hands. “But where’s that sound coming from?”

The taller of the two gasped. He heard it before he saw it — a whispering mutter, like a voice with no words, a ghost of its own echo. The familiar sight of the timber safe box he’d found deep in the manor itself. Lost to time.

“Jespar… this is the Word of the Dead.”

Blue eyes bore into gold that drew a colour of hunger. “This is it? But… then the Aged Man left it on purpose? For us?”

The golden eyes tore itself away from the living to focus on the object able to communicate to the dead. The task seemed much harder when the blues ones didn’t move at all. “It would seem so.”

Stunned, he ran his fingers over it, barely trembling due to the cold or perhaps the discovery. It remained unclear.

“Phew… maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but it seems to me as if this fellow knew a lot more than we did from the start. Still, we should take this thing with us. Let’s got back to Ark and report to the Grandmaster.”

With a bit of effort, and some help from Fahlkun, Jespar wrenched the dreaded thing from the ground then Fahlkun swept it under his arm as his partner fetched two teleportation scrolls that had thankfully survived the ordeal.

“I’ve got a scrolls right here with me. What do you say?”

He doesn’t need to, so he only nodded. Jespar understood, no words necessary.

They barely noticed the rain stopping altogether as they drifted away, washed away by magic and parchment.

Clear skies and clouds parted, but like the rain before them, they were no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that’s the end. Thanks again for reading, this was a treat to write. Plenty more fics to come in the near future so stay tuned 😄


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